Two score and sixteen years ago, a great American hero whose light and path we admire today, spoke of a dream driven by compassion and love for his people. A dream born out of the oppressive bounds of slavery, reconstruction and Jim Crow, A dream that I, a negro child would stand before a crowd colored by the pen of integration, without presenting myself as a token or spectacle
In this dream painted with strokes of desperation, aggravation and hope, a warning brewed.
A warning projected so far into the future that our ancestors didn’t understand it.
A call to action for the prodigy of activists, leaders, and martyrs.
A heads-up about us.
We are the warning King directed to a nation that believed the Civil Rights Movement a mere rant for reconciliation.
He proclaimed that his cries ended nothing, but began a rise to the equity and equality of those ruined by guys
In tailored suits and custom shoes that thought the negroes would stay quiet with a signing of the legislation disguised as appeasements.
He foretold that a reversion to the ways of his time would only ensure his prophesy.
We are the warning.
We are the descendants of black jailbirds and swingin’ fruit
The voices of the gunned down, the haggled, the abused
The nightmare no one knew could stew and explode into action from the recesses of quiet.
All it took was the prodding and the backpedaling of a nation ignorant to a wise man’s words.
We are the warning that stirred into a movement
A movement to uncover the bitter truth of the system that protects some by oppressing others.
Black Lives Matter,
Hands up, don’t shoot.
We are the fulfillment of a prophesy left by a leader whose words are minced to excuse microaggressions from liberals who don’t give a shit about our lives, our battle, our fight.
We are the warning.
From two score and sixteen years ago
From a great American hero whose light and path we admire today,
From a dream driven by compassion and love for his people and their future
A dream born out of the oppressive bounds of slavery, reconstruction and Jim crow,
A dream that I, a negro child would stand before a crowd colored by the pen of integration, without presenting myself as a token or spectacle.
We are the warning that his dream will never end.